


hearthbound

by verity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Happy Ending, Knight Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Quests, Witch Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: When Keith was younger, he used to wish that his soul would lead him to Shiro, that wherever Shiro went, Keith could follow him forever—that he’d be hearthbound to Shiro instead of a place, or none. They were both orphans without a home. Maybe theirs could be each other.





	hearthbound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voidslantern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidslantern/gifts).



> written for voidslantern, who requested fantasy & soulmate AUs. this is definitely the first and sort of the second. :)
> 
> thanks to MoreThanSlightly and Pickleweasel for cheerleading and to spooky for being my buddy in screaming about sheithlentines!

Keith may be called to wander, but he doesn’t have to like it.

“I know you won’t forget to write, but I have to remind you anyway,” his mother Krolia says as she folds him into a hug. “Kosmo will find me wherever I am. Let me know if you need me.”

Kosmo is Keith’s familiar; usually, he takes the shape of a wolf. He’s sniffing around their ankles now, whining, too sensitive to Keith’s distress. He flew with Keith to the inn in the form of a crow, swooping down from the alps of Marmora to the vale below alongside them. Even this close to Marmora, a witch and his familiar are an unusual sight, but Keith spent most of his life failing to fit in. He ignores the curious gaze of the groom who brings out their horses and turns his attention to Krolia, embracing her tightly. “Thanks for coming this far with me.”

Krolia smiles. “My own journey can wait for my son.” She releases him to take the reins of her mount, Vela. 

For the last two years, they’ve journeyed the realm side-by-side, returning to the Marmora clan in the summers to take advantage of the cooler air and the company. Krolia, too, is called to wander, but even those who hear that call may have some respite—Keith himself is evidence.

“I wish I could stay with you,” he says.

Krolia shakes her head. “You’ll come back to me when the time is right, just as I was led back to you. You know where you’re called to be.”

Keith looks at her for a long moment. “I love you, Mom.” He doesn’t bother to hide the tears that spill onto his cheeks. If there’s anything he’s learned in the years since he rejoined the Marmora clan, it’s that there’s no shame in love or fealty to your family or your call.

“I love you, too, my treasure,” Krolia says.

The groom is approaching them again, this time with Keith’s stallion Orion walking very slowly behind him, clearly in no haste to depart. “Here you are,” the groom says as he passes Keith the reins. “This one’s not so agreeable.” Kosmo growls, affronted on behalf of Orion.

Krolia places a silver coin into the groom’s palm. “Our thanks for bearing with us.” 

Then Keith, his mother, and their companions are alone again in front of the inn, where they’ve rested and broken their fast thrice now before setting out on their journeys. The fork is in sight, one path curving down and another curving south along the ridge of the vale. “I’m ready now,” Keith says, composing himself.

“You are.” Krolia leans in to plant a last kiss on his cheek. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The lush fields of the vale spread out before Keith as he descends on the road west. Kosmo has shifted into a stoat for today’s ride, tucking himself into Keith’s jacket and dozing as Orion carries them. They’ll break again before the sun is at its full height. 

Keith was raised by his father in the arid lands to the south, then fostered out after his father’s death to a lord in Altea with the money for an extra mouth and the work to justify it. He was ill-mannered, too good at things he oughtn’t have been, and friendless until Shiro came down from the north to train there as a knight. Thinking of him, Keith’s cheeks flush, and not with the sun.

When Keith was younger, he used to wish that his soul would lead him to Shiro, that wherever Shiro went, Keith could follow him forever—that he’d be hearthbound to Shiro instead of a place, or none. They were both orphans without a home; maybe theirs could be each other.

Of course, that’s not how it works. You can choose who you love, but your soul chooses your home. Like Keith’s mother, Shiro was called to wander. Sometimes Keith felt like he and Shiro were both cursed.

But the only one under a curse was Shiro.

* * *

Kosmo stirs near midday, nosing at Keith’s throat. He’s hungry, though not for food, and Keith and Orion need to eat. “I’ll stop soon,” Keith reassures him, eyeing the bend in the river ahead. “Orion will want a rest.”

The water of the river is clear and cool, fed with the runoff from the high mountains that are home to the Marmora. Keith brings Orion to the bank to drink, then ties him to a tree and leaves him to graze while Keith drinks from his cupped hands. He refills the waterskin he emptied along the ride before he joins Orion and Kosmo in the shade. 

Kosmo has shifted back into his preferred form, a wolf who looks like no wolf outside the mountains. He settles against Keith’s side as Keith eats a wedge of cheese, some jerky, and an early apple that’s crisp and sweet on his tongue. Keith glances around quickly before he closes his eyes. Then he pushes his fingers through Kosmo’s fur, scratching right behind his ears. “Now is fine,” Keith says, and opens the gates that conceal the flame of his quintessence.

All Marmora witches take a familiar. Sharing power with one is a bellows on the cold fire of a witch’s flame, and the depth of their union has made Keith and Kosmo deceptively strong for their age and size. Keith knows that anyone can see the purple halo of quintessence blaze around them and fears no challenge. He has his power, his sword, and his familiar at his side. He wears the livery of his people as well as the yoke of his call.

“Hey! Hey, dude! You mind if we take a spot over here?”

Keith frowns, concentrating.

“Hellooooo, are you even paying attention?”

Someone else giggles. “Lance, knights are supposed to be decorous. Didn’t you learn anything when you trained?”

Keith knows that voice. He stirs and the connection with Kosmo drops away, to Kosmo’s clear annoyance. “Romelle, what brings you this far west?”

Romelle shades her eyes with her hand and squints at him. She’s wearing a squire’s garb in her family’s colors, her hat tucked under her arm. “Keith?” she says incredulously. “Is that you?”

The knight at her side is in full armor and must be sweltering in the midday heat, even now that the summer’s begun to turn. He flips up his visor and squints. “Wait… _the_ Keith? My rival Keith?”

“I’m not anyone’s rival.” Keith gestures to the riverbank. “This isn’t my territory, either. If you wish to rest here, I won’t stop you.”

Romelle drops the reins of her horse, dashing over to throw her arms around Keith’s neck so forcefully that they topple over. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“It’s good to see you?” Keith says.

Kosmo betrays him by licking Romelle’s face as she laughs, rolling off Keith to his side. “When Mama and I came home from our trip, Papa said you’d abandoned your training to return to your people in the mountains. I thought you were from the desert!”

“Both,” Keith says shortly.

The knight—Lance—strides over to them, his plates clanking as he moves. “We were totally rivals when we were squires! We faced off at so many competitions! You gotta remember that.”

Keith shrugs. ‘How’d you end up training with _him_?” he asks Romelle.

Romelle’s face falls. “Well, you know… I was meant to squire Shiro. Then you. But you left.”

“I did.” Keith won’t apologize, but he does feel a niggling guilt. “My mother came for me. I’ve trained with her and my uncles these past few years.”

Lances tsks. “I don’t see a shield on you.”

“Not what I trained in.” Keith climbs to his feet. He’d meant to rest longer, but he’s not likely to get any here. “Come, Kosmo,” he says to his familiar. “Let’s go.” 

WIth a grumble, Kosmo shifts into a crow and lets out a barking cry before he takes off, soaring overhead. He must want to stretch his wings after his lazy morning. Keith lowers his gaze and finds Lance and Romelle staring.

“Safe travels,” Keith says as he unties Orion’s reins.

* * *

The call doesn’t feel anything like Keith was told it would. His mother said her call was a tether, tugging her on her way. His uncles said that it felt like falling in love. His father never said anything about his own at all.

At first, Keith thought they were dreams. Green fields, flatter than those of the vale, a stream running through them. Sometimes he dreamed of lying in the grass, but more often he surveyed the place in his dreams, fields which lay wild and empty. Keith grew distracted in his training, staring down the mountains, imagining the dip of the land beyond and where it led. His call wasn’t a sensation, an emotion—just a preoccupation. 

Before, Keith was equally content to roam at his mother’s side and to remain in the refuge of the Marmora, dining with his aunts and uncles, cousins constantly at Keith’s elbows or his ankles. Neither were anything like the solitude of his childhood or the even-lonelier servitude of his adolescence. Keith hadn’t itched for the stretch of the road or the rise of the mountains.

This was an itch, though, like something caught in the corner of his eye—only it was some corner of his mind instead. Krolia noticed right away. “Something you want to tell me?” she said the third day that Keith’s eyes drifted along with his thoughts while they stood on the training field.

“No,” Keith said stubbornly.

Krolia smiled and reached out to touch his cheek; she was never shy with her affection. “My son, you can keep no secret from me. Not even those you keep from yourself.”

Keith’s cheeks burned.

“Something has stirred in you,” Krolia said. “There’s no shame in honoring your call, if it is that.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Don’t you?” his mother said.

Keith _did_ know, as soon as she said it. Shame wasn’t what had kept that knowledge at bay, but a deep, howling grief. Keith had never wanted to be called out to the road, to journey far and wide. He’d only wanted to be with Shiro.

* * *

After two hours of little company but the occasional wagon or rider, Keith has the misfortune to catch up to another party on the road who can keep his pace. They turn onto the road from a smaller route that Keith knows leads toward the imposing ranges that border the northern reaches of Altea. He’s unsurprised to see them in Holt livery. 

“Well met,” Keith says, even though he would rather not have met a Holt at all. “I am Keith of the Marmora, traveling east.”

Both of the Holt party are on fine horses, likely as well-bred if not as prideful as Orion. “Ah,” says the shorter man, whose face is half-shrouded by an oversized mail coif. “I’m Pidge, riding under the banner of Holt, and this is Hunk.”

Hunk is dressed as humbly as a monk, but his saddlebags are bursting with cargo. He ventures a cautious wave. “Hi, I’m not under anybody’s banner and I’m an apothecary and I don’t want to fight anybody, I didn’t want to come on this trip anyway—”

Pidge grabs a lance from his carrier and pokes Hunk in the side with the blunt end. “They’re our allies, we’re being _polite_.”

“Sorry,” Hunk says. “No offense, I’m just kind of concerned about dying? A lot?”

“On this road?” Keith doesn’t know of any serious threats in this province, which is little more than border-to-border fields of wheat and rye.

“More like all the time,” Hunk says.

Pidge sighs.

Unfortunately, the sworn amity between the Marmora and the Holts carries real obligation for Keith. “I am headed toward the City,” he says, holding in a sigh. “If you permit it, I will join your party for as long as our paths are the same.”

“I will permit it,” says Pidge.

Hunk glances between them, brow wrinkling. “Sure,” he says hesitantly.

Keith holds in a sigh and issues a wordless summon. When Kosmo comes to perch on the horn of Orion’s saddle, Keith lets his quintessence shine. “I am a witch of the Marmora. No harm will come to you while you ride with me.”

Hunk’s eyes go wide.

“Hey, that’s what _I_ told you,” Pidge says. “Why does it mean more just because he glows?”

* * *

Instead of peaceful silence, Keith journeys the rest of the day surrounded by Hunk and Pidge’s bickering, which quickly turns to enthusiasm when the conversation moves away from danger to their studies. They must be even younger than Keith, whose training has been interrupted by his call. Kosmo seems entertained, following them closely until he tires and comes to Keith to turn into… a kitten. 

“Does this amuse you?” Keith says, careless of his company as he scrambles to keep Kosmo from tumbling off Orion’s back. He scoops Kosmo up and drops him into the soft pocket formed by his jacket. Kosmo burrows close, his small claws prickling Keith through his shirt. They haven’t passed a day with so little time to rejuvenate since Keith found in Kosmo in the spring.

As dusk nears—faster every passing day, this time of year—he sees Pidge and Hunk keep casting assessing glances at the sky. Keith is at ease making shelter and resting almost anywhere, but they must be used to the comfort of a bed. Hunk groans with relief when an inn appears on the horizon.

Yes, it’s the Sated Boar. Keith hasn’t been here before, but he’s ridden past at Krolia’s side. _Really,_ she said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. _Do you think the visitor is intended to be satiated, or to sate the beast?_

“Well, I’m ready to hang up my reins for tonight,” Pidge says. “How about you, Euclid?”

It takes Keith a moment to realize Pidge is talking to his horse.

“I hope the rest of the road is smoother,” Hunk says. “This place better really be able to feed a boar.” 

Orion is not well-pleased to be left with a strange groom, but he never is. A small amount of coin buys them room and board for the night. As Keith washes his face and shakes the dust of travel from his outer clothes, Kosmo changes from cat to mouse. “You’re so silly,” Keith says, kneeling down to scratch behind Kosmo’s tiny ears with his fingertip. “Princess Allura’s familiars are said to be mice all the time, you know.”

Kosmo huffs delicately. His form may change, but his colors never do; with his dark blue fur and its bright stripes, he could never be mistaken for anything but what he is. If knowing eyes look closely, they’ll see the gleam of his power. Gently, Keith scoops Kosmo up into his palm and drops Kosmo into a pocket.

Pidge and Hunk already have a table in the tavern downstairs, where they’ve been joined by none other than Lance and Romelle.

“Hey, hey, look who it is,” Lance says, slouching back in his chair as he beckons Keith over. “My rival, my nemesis.”

Romelle rolls her eyes. “Keith is not your _nemesis_.”

If only Keith’s Marmora vows would allow him to offer a little less hospitality. He resigns himself to accepting the seat Hunk pulls out for him.

“We all trained together under Iverson,” Pidge says by way of explanation. “Before Lance _left_ us and Hunk and I went back to my—people.”

Lance looks at Pidge curiously. “I thought you were from the North.”

“The Holt lands _are_ north,” Pidge says. 

Under the table, Hunk is fidgeting with the knotted ends of his rope belt. He stops when he catches Keith’s gaze. “I’m from the south,” he say, too loudly. “From the islands.”

Keith is quiet for a moment. “I’m from the dry lands in the south, but my mother’s from the mountains.”

“You never told me that.” Romelle sounds hurt. Oh.

“I didn’t know,” Keith says, meeting her eyes. “My mother’s a wanderer. Would it have made my life easier for any to know where she was from?”

He doesn’t have to spell it out further for the table to understand his meeting. The Marmora are a people of the pass, the only open bridge to the Galra lands behind the high peaks that bound and shelter the realm of Altea. They are of the Galra race, and so is Keith—though his skin may be fair, their blood runs in him as surely as their magic. His magic.

“So that’s what you’ve been off doing,” Romelle says as surely as if she can read his mind. “Becoming a—witch?”

Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Spooky.”

“Cool,” Hunk says, looking as delighted by this revelation as the diversion it offers.

One of the tavern maids comes over with mugs of mulled cider for all of them. Keith drinks quietly and lets the others drive the conversation. He tries not to glance at Pidge for too long. Keith doesn’t know the full Holt lineage, but of course he knew Matt—Shiro’s companion in their doomed mission over the treacherous Kerberos pass in the North. Perhaps Pidge is a cousin, the one who stands to inherit. They do look alike. 

“I must rest,” he says at last, rising. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

“At dawn?” Lance says, sounding horrified.

“You don’t have to ride with us,” Pidge says.

“ _Please_ ride with us,” says Hunk.

“At dawn,” Keith repeats. He flees. 

Upstairs, he lies in bed with Kosmo on his chest, still small, soaking in their shared quintessence. The call thrums beneath his breastbone now, like a fresh bruise. He’s getting closer. Somehow, that knowledge just makes him feel more alone.

* * *

By the time word reached Keith that Shiro’s mission had been lost, he was already with Krolia at the far end of the kingdom. They were visiting his father’s homestead, or what remained of it; the lands were still in Keith’s name. Keith’s grief was fresh and old, half-healed and raw. His mother held him like a child for the first time since he’d been one, and Keith let her. He couldn’t cry—an old habit, holding things in, that he hadn’t yet learned to break.

“I don’t know how bright the flame burns in you,” his mother said when they separated. “But even if it’s dim, you should be able to see where your beloved lies. I’ll teach you.”

They’d shared quintessence before, palm-to-palm, exchanging memories without a word. Keith held out his hands, but Krolia shook her head, bringing her own hands together. He did the same, a mirror, and felt the air thrum with the soft light of his mother’s quintessence. In her cupped hands, a small sun rose, as ruddy as the dawn before giving way to a golden light. “Me?” he said after a moment.

“Of course,” she said. “Now think of him.”

As if Keith didn’t think of Shiro morning and night, the way his dark hair waved over his forehead, the power of his broad shoulders, the kindness of his smile. He thought of all those things as he summoned his inner fire and it roared up in his hands so brightly that he flinched, leaning back from the white light that gleamed like a beacon. Involuntarily, Keith closed his eyes, and then there was Shiro, striding across his field of vision, a mess of blood and dirt. His right arm glowed with an unseemly light. But he was alive, alive and fighting, and Keith burned with it, the radiant strength of his love.

* * *

At dawn, they set out again—Lance yawning, Romelle bright-eyed, Hunk resigned, Pidge alert. Keith himself slept deeply. He urges Orion into a canter and the others follow his lead. “Why are you leading us?” Lance complains. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

“I’m just following the road,” Keith says. “You’re the one who chose to ride behind me.” 

Overhead, Kosmo lets out a barking caw.

Keith’s hardly a leader. He’s chasing a wandering call that’s taking him farther and farther from his family, that leads him wherever it wills, hearthbound to no place and no person. They’re the ones with a destination in mind—not yet a call that will either anchor them or unroot their lives.

“I hear that Princess Allura is only summoning warriors of noble heart and valiant spirit,” Lance says loftily. “I am extremely valiant.”

“Valiant and big-headed,” Romelle says. “On the other hand, I have a very noble heart.”

Pidge snorts. “She also asked for warriors who are pure of purpose. I’m pretty sure anyone who wants to be picked just on the basis of their daring or breeding—”

“I’m not going to fight anybody,” Hunk says to Keith quietly. “I’m going to train one with one of the chief apothecaries in Altea.” His chest puffs with pride. “Battle’s not everything, you know?”

Keith dips his head in acknowledgment. 

The road east grows broader as they cross into the next province, and the buildings on either side come closer and closer together as they begin to draw near the city. It’s a full week’s ride from the mountains, so a full week of company that’s by turns pleasant and nearly unbearable. Even Romelle, whose cheerful presence is at least familiar, begins to wear on him by the end. The green place in the back of Keith’s mind shifts from pain to comfort as they go—a promise of solitude and respite, if he can just endure this week of company.

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Hunk asks when they pull up to the pass in sight of the City, where the great road breaks to either side, curving north and south around the grand buildings and the towering Castle from which Princess Allura reigns.

“No,” Keith says. “My destination lies further.”

Romelle pulls up short. “But, Keith—I don’t know anyone with a truer heart, spirit, or purpose.” Beside her, Lance sputters. “Why wouldn’t you answer her call?”

“I have one of my own,” Keith says, with real bitterness. “I can’t set that aside.”

If only it were so easy. 

“Fair enough,” Pidge says, giving him an assessing glance. “The house of Holt thanks the clan of Marmora for your companionship along our journey.”

* * *

East of the City, the coast curves north, bringing the water further inland. Keith never comes in sight of the sea, but he’s close enough to smell it on a breezy day. He’s never ridden this far at Krolia’s side—their journeys have taken them to the south and the north, and to the spit of sunny, salt-drenched land that curves around the southern bounds of the ridge separating Galra soil from Altean. The eastern half of Altea is temperate and mild year-round, the land pale with this year’s barley harvest. Keith camps out every night, sleeping under the shade of willow trees with Kosmo curved against his side, sharing in his quintessence.

The call is bearable by day only as long as Keith chases it like a fish after a lure. At night, his dreams give way to visions of green on green, grass not yet touched by the chill of autumn, which give way to dreams again—Shiro, his beautiful dark hair struck with white; Shiro, lying on the grass; Shiro, the toned muscles of his stomach, bathing in a stream that barely reached his waist. Keith wakes from that last one hard and aching and embarrassed, Kosmo snoring at his side.

Instead of relieving his tension, Keith rolls onto his side and cups his hands together the way he did in the desert, the way he’s done half-a-dozen times since. He doesn’t have to think about it. His flame is already alight, attuned, and blazing up like a beacon in Keith’s hands. Keith closes his eyes and sees Shiro truly—asleep, bunked down on a humble bed in a small, nearly bare cabin. His forelock is white; the hand tucked beneath his cheek in sleep gleams silver in the moonlight. 

He feels... near.

Keith yanks his hands apart, heart pounding. Shiro can’t be here. He’s over the mountains, he’s fighting, he’s—

Not lost.

Not found, either.

The sun’s barely warming the horizon, but Keith springs to his feet, jostling Kosmo from his slumber. “We have to go,” he says to Kosmo’s irritable growl. “You can sleep on the way if you want. I can’t wait.”

* * *

When Shiro left, it was in answer to a royal summons. Not a general one, like the one that drew Keith’s party to the City, but a letter written by Chancellor Coran himself. “Princess Allura has asked for me herself,” Shiro said as he looked up from the letter, amazed. “Me, Lord Holt, and his son.” When he smiled, his face was as bright as any sun.

Keith couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ll squire you.”

At this, Shiro’s expression dimmed. “I wish you could,” he said. “This mission’s very dangerous, though. The pass will be narrow. If I go, it’ll be just the three of us.”

“Why?” Keith said, and hated himself for how childish he sounded.

“The Holts know the north. And I’m—” Shiro squinted at the page. “‘Noble of heart, valiant of spirit, pure of purpose’?”

“She must have seen you joust,” Keith said.

Shiro already looked a month’s ride away. “Maybe.”

By then, Keith knew about the curse, although he hadn’t known very long. No member of Shiro’s family had lived past thirty since it was levied, and no Altean magic could lift it. There was only so long Shiro had to make his mark on the world, and Keith knew no one who so suited or so desired the office of a royal knight. If knowledge of his certain faith couldn’t deter Shiro, no promise of hazard might.

“I’ll think about it, I promise,” Shiro said.

“Of course,” Keith said, but he knew.

* * *

The seat of Shiro’s family was in the east, two days’ ride from the coast, but that didn’t mean anything. Surely Keith never thought of it as he rode Orion down from the alps of Marmora. His call was an unwanted weed too stubborn to uproot, his destination an afterthought. Keith was raised in the dust of the desert and the steep rise of the mountains—what could any grassy field mean to him but the drive to wander? 

The call thrums in his chest like a second heartbeat, quick and urgent, guiding him up a road that runs along the river that flows into the eastern port at its delta. Keith rides against the stream as he follows his own inner current into the countryside of Altea’s easternmost reaches. Hope swells in his chest as bright and sharp as the light of his heart in his cupped palms. He shouldn’t hope. He can’t hope. He has to hope.

Kosmo is a crow soaring overhead, a mouse in Keith’s pocket, a ferret around Keith’s neck, and briefly and uncomfortably a large snake massed behind Keith, desperately clinging to Keith’s waist and the saddle. They share the same flame—Kosmo is just as unsettled as Keith.

The insistent pulse of Keith’s call drops away as soon as he crosses some unseen boundary, replace by something else entirely—a heady belonging that brings tears to Keith’s eyes and forces him to stop at the threshold in an attempt to compose himself. No one prepared him for the impossible joy of a hearthbond, the sweetness and power of arrival at his home. This, this bit of grass at the far end of the kingdom. 

Shiro finds Keith there, still on Orion. Keith sees him coming from far off and can’t do more than wipe the wetness from his cheeks on the back of his sleeve, spent and overwhelmed. His heart and his hearth together anchor him to the ground. He waves back when Shiro recognizes him and waves, then starts running. “Keith!” he shouts. “How are you here?”

Keith dismounts quickly enough that he’s still finding his balance when Shiro envelopes him in an embrace. “Shiro,” he says, and isn’t that really the truth of it, the how and the why? He buries his face in Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro no longer towers over him, but he’s still taller, reassuringly solid and warm. Keith takes a deep breath before he lifts his head. “I’m answering my call.”

“Your call?” Shiro’s eyes widen. “Here?”

Keith nods. “How did you come to be here? Your mission—”

“This is my home,” Shiro says simply. “The rest… I can’t remember.”

They’re still holding each other, so close together. Keith drinks in the rich scent of Shiro’s skin and trembles. This is everything he’s wanted for so long and yet it’s still not quite enough. “I’ve been training with my mother’s people, the Marmora,” Keith says, the words tumbling from his lips unbidden. “I can lift your curse. But that’s not why—” He takes a deep breath. “It’s mine, too. My home. Here. Where I’m bound.”

Softly, Shiro says, “You found me.”

The breeze lifts the white shock of hair from Shiro’s forehead and blows the loose ends of Keith’s hair into his face. Shiro raises one hand to tuck Keith’s hair behind his ears, deliberate and gentle. Keith closes his eyes. He can feel Shiro’s breath ghost across his forehead. “I could find you anywhere. You’re my heart.”

Shiro’s hand stills against Keith’s cheek. “I dreamed of you watching over me.”

“I did,” Keith says.

He still burns with it, the yearning and power that filled the bowl of his palms when he brought Shiro into his vision. Except now Shiro is in his hands, truly, returned to Keith again—changed and cursed and alive, infinitely precious. This certain knowledge is what propels Keith onto the tip of his toes, leaning up to press a messy, sloppy kiss to Shiro’s mouth.

Shiro is still for a long, horrible moment, but he doesn’t release Keith from his hold. Instead, he leans down to kiss Keith properly with both of their feet on the ground. 

The land sings with satisfaction beneath them.

* * *

The letter from Princess Allura is addressed to both of them, requesting their presence in the City. “To return to her service,” Shiro says, scrutinizing the florid script. He lifts his head, meeting Keith’s eyes. “Well—to join, in your case.”

“Will it be too dangerous for me to serve as your squire?” Keith says with a lightness he doesn’t feel.

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Shiro says. “You’d be my witch.”

Princess Allura’s familiar Chuchule sits before them on the table that Shiro built last week, waiting on their answer. The table doesn’t sit quite level, but it might just be the weathered floor. “We’ll return our response via my familiar,” Keith says to Chuchule. “You’re dismissed.” 

Chuchule’s noise wriggles with distaste. Yes, Keith is very rude, and he knows it. Kosmo butts his head against the table and Chuchule wobbles into the ether with a flash of blue flame and disapproval.

The first time that Shiro received a summons from Princess Allura, they were orphans in someone else’s castle with nothing but a bad attitude or a curse to distinguish them. Now Shiro has his full life ahead of him, Keith has a clan, and they both have the bedrock of a hearthbond beneath them. Keith’s not eager to leave.

Shiro sets down the letter and takes Keith’s hand. “We’ll decide together this time. It can wait for dinner.”

Some of the tension leaves Keith’s shoulders. They have time and space to choose. Even if they take up this quest, they won’t have to surrender this sturdy foundation for their lives, if not their furniture. “If your rice balls don’t roll right off the plate.”

“Oh, so they make _all_ the floors level in Marmora?”

Keith smiles and twines his fingers with Shiro’s. “Yes,” he says. “So can we.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [@regretsonmain](https://twitter.com/regretsonmain) on twitter.


End file.
